


i will build my empires on your ruins;

by thedarklings



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Angst and Feels, Eventual Smut, F/M, Forbidden Love, Greek Mythology - Freeform, Jealousy, Love Triangles, Love/Hate, Machine!Connor as Ares, Multi, Mutual Pining, RK900 as Hades, Reader-Insert, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Swearing, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-21
Updated: 2018-09-21
Packaged: 2019-07-15 07:28:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16058393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedarklings/pseuds/thedarklings
Summary: "This will be your ruin."





	i will build my empires on your ruins;

The night you were born the sky howled its fury.

Heavy rain, wind and hail battered the tiny hut as your mother screamed to high heavens for mercy.

But there would be no mercy that night.

You were too early; too desperate to live, to fight.

After entire night of pained wailing, you came into the world screaming your own fury at the darkness.

Your cries mixed with the storm and your father held you in his arms scrupulously.

“The Gods must be furious with you, little star, you fought them all off to come to us early,” he murmured lovingly against your flushed baby cheek.

He had no idea how right he was.

**. . .**

You were six when you realised you were just that little bit different from other children your age.

Where they harmed, you fixed.

Your hands sought out the things they hurt and mended them.

A baby bird who had fallen from its nest, a stray cat, a beaten dog.

Your heart felt pity for them—a  _care_ —so you fixed, and you fixed, and you fixed.

You were eight when you nurtured your neighbours horse back to health.

There was no secret, no magic involved, except a stubbornness which refused to leave as you stroked the horse’s mane soothingly.

“ _Do not go to the Lord of the Dead_ ,” you insisted in a small whisper, darkness thick around the barn as you used the shaft of moonlight to stare the animal in the eye pleadingly. “ _Your Master still needs you, so you have to stay with him_.”

Your neighbour thanked you profusely the next day, called you a dear and a sweet child who held the favour of the Gods. But it wasn't that, you knew that much. There was just you and your luck.

You were eleven when you healed your first human patient. Your own mother.

Twelve was the age when the village healer made you her apprentice. The older woman marvelled at your talent daily. She too believed magic to be involved despite your insistence that Gods were not entangled with you or your family.

She was the first to watch you hungrily, greedily, as yet another patient bowed their head in gratitude with tears in their eyes.

She would not be the last.

**. . .**

Life, as you knew it, was destroyed on a warm summer’s night.

“Please,  _please_ ,” you begged, tears choking you as you grasped onto your mother’s lifeless hand. “ _Why_? Why would you do this?”

The village healer stared at you with emotionless, pitiless smile. “Because we need to  _know_. Do you not wish to know what you can do? What extent your gift goes to? Do you have any idea how blessed you are? Evidently, you cannot bring back the dead. Even loved ones. A pity...but maybe with a bit more  _encouragement_ …”

A sob tore through your chest as you cradled your mother’s cold, stiff hand in your own tightly. Your father’s glassy eyes stared at you from few steps away and you sobbed loudly, sickness welling in your stomach.

They could not be dead.

You healed things but—

Only while they were still alive, while they still had a will of their own to fight, and you simply had to encouraged it. Protect the fragile flame flickering in a terrible storm.

No matter how much you pleaded or begged through your tears, your parents did not move.

Eternal stillness held their bodies down.

Their souls no longer belonged to this realm.

Or any realm but  _one_.

“You will tell me how you did it,” the healer hissed harshly against your ear, jerking you away from your mother’s body by the hair. “What God did you trick into giving you this gift? Which one?”

A knife— _oh Gods_ , she had a knife.

There was madness; bright, fervent madness burning in the healer’s eyes, and you knew that soon you too would be joining your parents in eternal slumber.

You wish it had been an accident.

You wish you could say that when the healer dragged you backwards, you did not kick her on purpose, did not grab her arm and tried to pull the knife away desperately.

You wish.

You  _wish_.

You  _ **wish**_.

But the truth was much simpler.

Grief shook your hand when you slipped the knife—softly, quietly—into the healer’s still beating heart.

You cried loudly, and held her body close to yours while hatred and madness faded from her eyes along with her life.

The truth was simpler.

She took your parents—beloved, kind, endlessly gentle, parents.

So you took from her what she took from you.

 _Life_.

You were fourteen when the world as you knew it ended.

You were fourteen when you learned that hands that heal can also  _destroy_.

**. . .**

“Why are you helping me?” you asked uneasily, your lips quivering as you stared at your elderly neighbour.

The man hurriedly placed bundles of food and blankets on the horse—the same beautiful, black mare you had helped years ago—without a glance in your direction. Another few minutes passed in silence, and you were starting to grow anxious of his silence before he sharply pulled on the last strap, and turned to you.

“You must hurry, child,” he told you, a slight wheeze in his breath as he tugged you by the arm. “You must put as much distance as you can between this place and yourself before sunrise, do you understand?”

“Why?”

The man paused at the tight, controlled way you spat the word out—voice still hoarse from grief and pain—as your bloodshot eyes stared at him uncomprehendingly.

“Because I knew you since you were nothing more than a small babe,” the old man explained wearily, his weathered face strained, “And never once did I see a seed of hatred or darkness in your soul. The exact opposite in fact. I will not let them stone to death someone who cradled butterflies in their palm, and laid in fields of flowers talking to baby birds you were nurturing to health. You have a pure heart.”

_A knife— **blood** —lifeless eyes and  **darkness** —_

“I—I do  _not_ ,” you choked out, your throat muscles closing up as tears burned your vision. “I have done a terrible thing. Gods will never forgive me. I cannot be forgiven.”

The old man’s fingers brushed against your wet cheek, and there was such simple comfort in his awkward affection, it made tears come harder.

“Then, my dear child,” the man told you sympathetically, “You must find a way to repent. You kill your demons, or you tame them and use them as fuel.”

**. . .**

The world ended.

But you did not.  

**. . .**

You were wanderess.

There was no home for you to go back to each night, no mother or father to kiss your head goodnight, no family or warmth.

When the food ran out, you stole.

But the guilt was so terrible you did not last long.

You made due where you could, and begged to help the villagers out when you couldn't.

Some rejected your help, others scorned you, but few let you help and repaid you in kind.

Mostly in food and shelter.

Often you took  _what_  you could,  _when_  you could, always praying to the Gods that tomorrow was kinder.

But you never stayed in one village for long.

Whenever you helped someone—saved their lives—their eyes always slid to you greedily. If you helped the sick, people always noticed. It was an eventuality you could not escape no matter how hard you tried.

Sometimes, folded deep in the shadows of the night, you wondered if it was because they could see the blood soaking your hands.

**. . .**

The world had ended.

But time still passed.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months.

Time did not stand still; no matter how much you wished it would.

Months turned into years, and you prowled still.

There was no aim, no goal, just kindness.

That, and repentance.

**. . .**

“Please, you must help us.”

Your head perked up at the desperate sound of a deep baritone voice. When your eyes finally located the man who spoke, your lips parted in surprise. The man was humongous, muscular in a way you heard written only in the tales of old. Of mighty, powerful beings carved from pure destruction.

This man was built like a Titan.

And he was currently begging a robed man for help with heart wrenching desperation.

“She is only little,” the giant spoke with surprising softness, “She is running a high fever. We’ve tried everything we can to help her but—”

“And I told you already, you have to pay,” the robed man shot back peevishly, eyes narrowed, and face scrunched up as if he was looking at something unpleasant. “I do not give out charity. Either you pay for my services or you go find yourself another healer—assuming you would even be able to find anyone else in this filthy excuse of a village.”

“We do not have money,” the giant argued weakly, his fingers flexing, “Can you not help her now, and I pay you back later? I can work for you. Whatever you need. Just  _please_  help the little one.”

The man folded his hands into the sleeves of his robes, and sneered, “No. Like I said, I do not give out charity. Not to nobles. And certainly not to some street urchins.”

And then he simply walked away without a backwards glance.

“I will help you,” you said softly from behind the giant.

His devastated expression eased and he turned to you, blinking as if surprised to see you there.

“Who—?”

“I will help you,” you said again, more urgently this time, “Take me to her, and I will do what I can.”

The man frowned, looking unsure, “I do not have money to give you,” he confessed. “I cannot repay you.”

Already shaking your head, you simply told him, “I do not need your money, sire, just a safe place to spend the night, and a slice of bread if you can spare it.”

There was such palpable relief in his eyes, your lips twitched slightly.

“My name is (Name).”

“Luther.”

**. . .**

Little one was in critical condition.

You brushed your hand against her clammy forehead, shushing her gently when she whined low in the throat; a petrified, tiny noise that made your heart ache.

The woman of the house—Kara, as she introduced herself hurriedly while she ushered you deeper into the hut—stood just beside you, her expression anxious.

“What is her name?” you asked, not looking away from the little one as you began removing your leather bag and taking out small pouches.

“Alice.”

Kara’s voice seemed to catch on the name, her voice meek and upset as she stared down at the little girl curled up in the blankets.

“Can you help her?” she asked tightly, terrified, “Please help her.”

“Is she your daughter?” you asked instead, swiftly laying a fresh cloth against Alice’s forehead. “Do you love her?”

Kara flinched before she exhaled, subtly glancing at Luther who lingered by the foot of the cot. “I—she’s not mine by blood but…”  

Heartbreaking fear.

A fear of losing someone you—

“But you love her regardless,” you concluded softly, a faint smile tugging your mouth. “I will need your help then.”

Kara’s eyes shone brightly, fiercely, and something told you were going to like this woman very much.

“Anything.”

**. . .**

The next day, the fever still raged.

Alice went through bounds of sickness, shivering, and crying all in a wild cycle that repeated viciously. You helped as much as you could to ease her discomfort but it was not easy.

She was so small and so young. Nowhere near ready to battle such aggressive illness.

The fire had burned down to low embers as you cradled her tiny, burning fingers in your own, pressing them against your lips.

“Fight, little one,” you murmured gently, carefully brushing your thumb over every fragile knuckle in her tiny hand. “They need you. Do not go to the dark. Follow me home instead. There are those in this realm that love you desperately. They  _need_  you. Do not let darkness take you. Come to the light, little one, come to the light. You have to  _fight_.”  

Kara and Luther slept restlessly side by side, Alice whimpered weakly, and you mouthed soft encouragements against her skin into early hours of the morning.

Some battles you won.

Some you lost.

But you had no intention of losing this one.

**. . .**

“Will she live?”

Your tired gaze moved to rest on Luther’s haggard face, and you sighed softly.

“The danger has passed for now,” you said cautiously, “While her fever finally broke she is still very much in danger of a relapse.”

“You are gifted.”

Something in your chest froze, guttered, and your lips drew into a tight line as you looked away.

“I am not.”

He gave you a long, searching look and you felt like he could see a lot more than you wanted him to. His gaze was warm however, and there was a certain gentleness to the grip of his fingers when he laid them on yours, squeezing just once before pulling away.

“I awoke last night, even though you were unaware,” he revealed mildly. “You were cradling Alice’s hand in yours in complete darkness, urging her to stay. Like you could call her from Death’s grip by will alone. And today she is better. You are gifted. And you have my eternal gratitude for helping us.”

“You don’t have to thank me.”

Same, automatic response.

“Perhaps not,” Luther agreed as you both watched Alice breathe deeply in her sleep. “But you deserve it.”

And you felt the simple warmth of those words settle against your heart.

**. . .**

They were a family.

When Alice woke up, Luther and Kara hugged her fiercely, lovingly, and held her close.

It reminded you of your family. Of your parents. How much you missed their love. How night after night you had wept into your open palms, smothering your grief like one would a dead thing.

It reminded you of the blood on your hands; stained, raw and ugly hands.

Of demons, guilt and the price of repentance.

So when they asked you to stay, a ‘no’ sat heavy on your tongue even though your heart—starving, ugly, traitorous heart—screamed and pleaded ‘yes’.

A tainted heart was a weak heart.

So you stayed.

**. . .**

“He used to beat her,” Kara revealed softly, but with a deep running rage buried in her words. You sat on the porch of the hut, both of you watching as Alice played with Luther; her childish, happy laughter warming your heart. “He beat her all the time and I—I could not let him. He was  _cruel_. He was so cruel to those around him. So I took her and ran, praying to all the Gods above he would never find us. It was so hard at first but then we ran into Luther...it's been better since then. Easier. She's happy because we’re finally free.”

 _Free_.

You basked in their kindness, their love for one another, and almost pretended you were a part of their unit.

But you were not.

You were nothing more than a temporary guest, and you would not make the mistake of thinking of them as your family.

Your family was dead.

**. . .**

“Will you stay with us forever (Name)?”

You pretended you did not notice how Luther lowered the water bucket with extra care, or how Kara paused in preparing dinner to hear your reply.

They had asked you to stay and you had stayed. But you never said for how long. You never expected to linger in the first place.

Fingers pausing in Alice’s hair, you smiled faintly at her innocent, curious expression. The braids you have woven into her hair looked beautiful, and you brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear affectionately.

Despite your best efforts, the trio had managed to crack your armour, if only a little.

“How long would you like me to stay, little one?” you asked quietly, your mouth twitching slightly at the determined yet soft expression on her young face.

“Forever.”

Humming, you tugged on her braid, “While I cannot promise forever, I can promise as long as my body and Gods allow it.”

“Well that’s forever then,” she spoke in a small voice. “Because you’re a goddess, and you will go back to the clouds one day. But for now we’re a family and it’s perfect.”

You wished it were that easy.

You wished you could go to the clouds, live with the Gods and leave all your worries and sins behind.

You wished you were something holy, and not wretched and broken instead.

**. . .**

A knock came just as the four of you were about to sit down for dinner.

When Luther opened the door, there was a frantic woman standing on the other side, a squirming bundle in her arms.

“ _Please_ ,” she begged the moment the door cracked open. “Please help my son. I heard of a healer living here. Please help,  _please_. He’s  _dying_.”

The woman broke down crying as she held her baby close to her chest, her face red and splotchy while the child wailed in her embrace.

You had not told anyone you were a healer.

Kara’s gaze bore into you, clearly cautious but expectant too. Luther still stood in the doorway but there was a weight to his stare when he glanced your way as well.

This life—this affinity for healing—always managed to find you, and drag you back no matter how far you ran.

It had taken your family.

But it had also helped you find Kara, Alice and Luther.

Sighing, you closed your eyes briefly before nodding slowly, and saw obvious relief on both Luther’s and Kara’s faces.

“There is a spare space we don’t use at the back,” Kara said urgently, ushering the woman inside the hut. “You are more than welcome to use it.”

The woman followed, dazed and still weeping as Luther closed the door soundlessly behind her.

And if you had known  _then_ , what path this kindness would set you on, you never would have opened that door in the first place.

**. . .**

The boy screamed through the night as you held him.

You shushed, and hummed and whispered to him as he burned and burned in your arms.

Luther stayed to help. You told him he shouldn't, that it was dangerous—that whatever illness the child had was likely contagious, and the exact reason you told the mother to leave.

“You need my help (Name),” he said firmly, leaving no room for arguments as you both tended to the child. “So I will stay and help however I can.”

You wished you had told him ‘no’.

You wished you had not been so selfish for help, for companionship.

But you had allowed him to stay.

So in the end, perhaps, you had it coming.

**. . .**

The child scraped by.

After four days of barely sleeping and eating, of holding the child in your arms and sheltering him from the land of the dead, the boy finally started recovering.

The mother fell to her knees right in front of you and cried herself hoarse, praising you and thanking you, calling you a miracle in human skin.

The sight alone made you sick.

**. . .**

You slept for two days straight after that.

Kara woke you up occasionally, fed you broth and gave you water from the well to drink.

But sleep clawed you back into its domain, and you always followed willingly.

Two days later, you woke up to the sound of deep, rumbling cough coming from Luther’s lungs.

And it served as a good reminder.

Gods were not kind. They were wholeheartedly  _cruel_.

**. . .**

The world as you knew it ended the second time on a cloudy summer’s night.

And it began with a visit from Death.

**. . .**

All you could see was Alice’s crying face.

All you could hear was Alice’s muffled sobs from the other side of the hut as you worked frantically.

There was a tremor in your hands that showed your own worry and fear. Kara wanted to help—eyes wide and pained—but you had stopped her, told her to stay with Alice who needed her comfort now more than ever.

Luther groaned harshly, his expression wan as he breathed heavily through his open mouth. His lungs seemed to crackle with every inhale, and you breathed harshly when you felt the too weak flutter of his pulse.

He was not going to make it.

He was going to die no matter what you did.

Some battles you won.

Some battles you  _lost_.

There was a memory of blood—a  _knife_ —and no life in the eyes of a woman who haunted your nightmares to this day.

You lost your parents because you were too weak, too slow, too stupidly naive to see the danger.

You refused to lose anyone else. Refused to lose your gentle giant. Kara  _needed_  him. Alice  _needed_  him.  _You_  needed him.

He had given you a purpose—a life—when you had nothing, and you refused to part ways with him like this.  

Death had already taken enough from you.

Your parents, your happy future, and all the lives you haven’t been able to save over the years.

 _Too much_.

Gripping his hand stiffly in yours, you stared down at Luther’s pained face and gripped his fingers tighter in your own.

“Don’t you  _dare_ ,” you hissed angrily, not quite sure where the bitterness was coming from. But all of a sudden you could feel it burning acutely in your chest, driving you wild. “You will not take him. You cannot take him. I refuse to give up anyone else. I refuse to. You will not take any more precious people from me. Do you hear me? I  _ **deny**_  you the right to his life.”      

Then, from copious, overbearing darkness of the room came a silk-like, cold whisper, “And who would  _dare_  to deny Death?”

You didn’t get a chance to scream as shadows wrapped and twisted around you, freezing the sound in your throat.

He stood in the corner of the room; in the darkest, most prominent stretch of black as low embers of the dying fire cast warm light on one side of his face.

Except, there was nothing warm about that face.

All sharp angles, and steep sloping valleys of lips, cheeks and jaw as his empty, arcane eyes took you in.

He made no sound when he stepped further into the room, the darkness rolling with him as his grey eyes scalded your skin and stripped you bare. There was such suffocating feeling of overwhelming power rolling off this creature wearing human skin that you could barely draw breath.

And you vaguely wondered how someone who looked like a noble—with his sleek black, high collar shirt and jacket, and casually folded arms—could make you want to run for the hills and never stop.

“W-Who?”

“You already know who I am,” he said sharply, eyes narrowing as he took another few steps closer, shadows bending and flowing in his wake. “Do not waste my time on pointless chatter, mortal.”

“Lord of the Dead.”

The title burned through your mind, and your heart fluttered in your chest when the man—God? Creature?—tilted his head gradually to one side.

Never in your life had you felt so small as you did in that moment the ruler of the Underworld openly judged you.

“And  _you_  are the girl who plays with shadows and death,” he noted icily, “I have heard much about you. You have become quite the nuisance in my realm.”

“I’m sorry?”

Eyes narrowing he did not move closer, but his voice was as sharp as a freshly sharpened blade, “I will be taking him now. He is mine, and I suggest you do not try and interfere again, mortal.”  

“Spare him.”

You winced at the coldness of dark shadows scraping against your legs when those rushed words left your lips. The air seemed stripped of any traces of warmth while the being before you frowned minutely, expression contemptuous. 

“Are you ordering me, mortal?”

Your reply was a hurried exhale of breath and syllables, “No, of course not. I am simply asking.”

Swallowing, you tried to straighten your spine, tried to stand taller and look him in the eye without fear. To show your resolve.

“ _Spare him_.”   
  
There was a sliver of cold amusement on his face as his grey eyes glinted, “Are you  _bargaining_  with me then? I do not tolerate such blatant disrespect, especially from mortals.”  
  
The shadows around the room seemed to hiss their agreement, slithering down and around your ankles as if waiting for a command to devour you.   
  
“What has Death ever done for me but take, and take and  _take_ ,” the words—foolishly brave words—slipped out before you could stop them, and you quickly added. “I know Death more intimately than anyone else. You are cruel, selfish and  _greedy_. You owe me this much.”  
  
There was a flicker of something terrifying in those freezing depths as his eyes bore into you, and between one unsteady breath and the next, he was right in front of you. His imposing frame caged you in as raw, undiluted fear crawled through your heart and into the very marrows of your soul.     
  
You realised how big of a mistake you had made when Death bared his sharp teeth at you in a mockery of a smile. Shadows and ice caressed your skin gently as he leaned his face closer to yours.   
  
“Is that  _so_?”

His breath was like winter’s night, destructive and biting as darkness danced against your cheek.

“What power do you have to bargain, mortal?” he mocked softly, and this close up you could see that his hair was not black like you initially thought it was. It was in fact the richest shade of dark brown you had ever seen as few loose strands brushed against his forehead. “ _None_. I could kill you with a touch of my fingers. Are you not afraid?”

“I-I am petrified,” you admitted lowly, your voice quivering, “But he is my friend, and I would give anything to save him. You have the power t-to do so.”

The slow upwards turn of his mouth was like a blade being drawn from its sheath.

“Careful with your words, mortal,” he whispered coolly, eyebrows hiking upwards as slight sneer twisted his face. Clenching your fingers into fists, you swallowed shakily, not dropping his gaze as tremor shook your knees.

There was a long moment his icy stare drilled into you without so much as a waver. “ _Anything_?”

The word was breathed softly, brushing against your senses as you blinked harshly realising that his entire being seemed to have blended into the darkness again.

“W-What is your name?”

His gaze was an endless, uninhabited prison that captured you, and you could almost feel yourself being dragged to the Underworld with a single glance.

“And why would a mortal wish to know Death’s name?”

The sound of your wildly beating heart was drowning out everything else around you except for the silky words of the God in front of you.

“So I can finally give my nightmares a name,” you murmured unevenly, “So I may know what name I should  _curse_  in my sleep.”

Something constricted around your throat briefly and you gasped weakly. Darkness hummed around you both and the God in front of you sneered.

“Nightmares? You know  _nothing_  of nightmares, mortal,” he spoke pitilessly, his voice low as his silver gaze hardened. “Not yet.”

The hope in your chest cracked. “I—I will not let you take him.”

Grey eyes—cruel, and bottomless—almost reflected the absence of light in the room, and when he finally moved his gaze away, you felt wild panic seize you. Luther groaned painfully behind you, and your fingers blindly reached through the shadows.

You were fully aware of how foolish you were being when your fingers wrapped around his forearm, when you felt the hard muscles under his jacket ripple at the contact.

“ _Anything_ ,” your terrified whisper cut through the terrible, icy displeasure suddenly lining Death’s tall frame. “I’m willing to give you whatever you want in exchange for his life.”

Alice.

Kara.

Luther was their family. They needed him.

But you had no family, no loved ones that relied on you, or needed you.

“ _You must find a way to repent. You kill your demons, or you tame them and use them as fuel_.”

It would be a worthy sacrifice.

Finally, a chance to repent for taking a human life.

“Your soul.”

Deliberate, and sly, he spoke smoothly as he finally turned his glacial stare back on you.

“ _What_?”

A flicker of irritation and impatience crossed his face before his expression smoothed again, “Underworld is a land of the dead. Healing and life do not come easily in my domain. My dark halls know your name, girl, oh how the tormented souls whisper of you. A mortal capable of pulling souls back to life. Your own soul will do nicely in my collection. A good reminder that  _no one_  cheats Death.”

“You want me dead?”

Something flitted across his expression as he turned to fully face you, eyes flickering down and then up absently, “I have other uses for you. Before your inevitable, pathetic end. When I summon you, you will answer. My will be your own, and as result no harm will come to your human...companion. That I can guarantee you,” he articulated evenly, his voice soft but knowing.

Knowing—like you had already agreed, already signed your soul away.

“Y-You will not make me kill or harm anyone,” you forced through your dry tongue, fingers tightly gripping onto the material of your clothes. “No harm will come to my friends. And—”

Cold fingers tilted your chin up, and you gasped shallowly at the cold that sunk into your skin upon contact, “This is not a negotiation, little mortal,” his voice was sensual, almost amused, and you couldn't help but to think that maybe this was worse than wrath. “You will take any mercy I extend your way because you have no other choice. His life is in your hands.”

You pulled away baffled by the lack of anger on his face. You had grown up on tales of Gods who cursed and tormented mortals simply because they could.

God of the Underworld. Lord of the Dead.

For some reason you expected him to be the worst one.

“I do not have the entire night, mortal, I will tear his soul out right in front of your eyes if you’re having such a hard time deciding,” he informed dispassionately, darkness humming around him when he took a small step in Luther’s direction.

“No!” you jerked yourself forward, your knees creaking as you stumbled. “I will do it. Just— _please_...don’t take him away.”

The God in front of you stilled, his shadows stilling with him, and you couldn't read much from his sharp profile but something told you he did not stop because he was surprised by your words. Something else stopped him in his tracks.

“Then let us seal the deal.”

You stared at him unsurely, eyebrows pulling together in confusion. A slight, devious smirk tugged his lips when he noticed your ignorance. Darkness rippled and he was a step away yet again, reaching forward till you felt his cold thumb brush briefly against your trembling bottom lip.

“You have to mean it,” he stated seriously, his eyes like a stormy sky before the thunderstorm began. “If your heart is not true, if you do not mean it, I will know. And then death will be the least of your worries.”

Sweat trailed down your back, and you released a shuddering breath of pure fear, at the thought of—

Looking away, you tried to gather yourself, build up your strength and set your spine into a rigid, unyielding line. You licked your lips once, biting them briefly before you heaved a large gulp of air into your lungs. Your fingers balled up into fists, shaking a little as you closed your eyes, lips parting in—

It was a soft as a petal.

Delicate; cold brush of shadow, ice and pure night against your lips.

And then it was anything  _but_.

It was a freezing, devouring thing that dragged you into the deepest depths of darkness with its intensity.

You groaned, lips parting in shock as his mouth seared against yours, his grip on the back of your head unyielding as he held you close.

Suddenly there was a sharp, burning sting against your lip and you whimpered, trying to jerk back but he held on tight, pulling you so close your bodies brushed against one another. He swallowed every noise to leave your lips greedily, and you shuddered against the burning cold feeling.

He was the one to pull away after another moment, unhurried and graceful, as his thumb swiped across his own mouth, licking the digit unhurriedly.

Your shaking fingers touched your stinging mouth, only to come away wet and red. Instinctively, your tongue brushed against your bleeding bottom lip as you stared at him in wide eyed disbelief.

The God of Death raised his hand towards Luther without breaking your gaze, and scarcely twitched his fingers before they once again lowered to his side.

Luther calmed immediately, his laboured breaths smoothing out into an even rhythm.

“As per our agreement, your companion shall live,” God of the Underworld announced indifferently, face taut before a flicker of a smirk adorned his face.

“I’ve had a  _taste_  of you now (Name),” he said silkily, expression taunting and shrewd, “And I shall come back very soon to collect my dues.”

Tasting the metallic bite of your own blood against your tongue, you felt the blood in your veins freeze as he turned away from you dismissively, shadows already wrapping around him.

“One more thing before I go,” he began, darkness pausing with his voice when he turned slightly to glance at you from the corner of his eye. “Mortals have used many names for me, cursed me with even greater amount of them. But you may call me Nines.”

And then he was gone.

Like a dream, a dark whisper.

If it wasn’t for the sting of your still bleeding lip, you would have thought the whole encounter was nothing more than a dream—a nightmare.

You turned towards Luther’s cot but only managed a step before your legs gave out and you collapsed on your knees, vomiting your meager lunch all over the floor.

**. . .**

When life as you knew it ended for the third time—just two weeks after that fateful encounter—you were not surprised at all. You had been expecting it.

It began with a hardened face of a being that was not human, and a simple command:

“You have been summoned.”

“By whom?”

“The God of War.”  

**Author's Note:**

> Well done for making it to the end! Hope you did not mind the length of this! I wanted to establish Reader’s character in a way that would justify/explain her reactions/actions/thoughts later on in the story. I also wanted to get through all the boring stuff so we could dive into the fun parts. As always your love is fuel for my starving demonic muse, and I thank you for your love, support and patience! 
> 
> Also this will be a pretty stripped back version of greek myths since I am focusing more on concepts/characters than the actual mythology. I also wanted this to be approachable to those who don’t know much about Greek Gods. Also, yes, I am aware that Hades is not personification of “Death”. That’s Thanatos but for the sake of this story I’m totally blending the two.


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